


Spent a Dollar on This Ring

by prosciutto



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Detectives, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Friends With Benefits, Unplanned Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-15
Updated: 2017-10-15
Packaged: 2019-01-17 12:36:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12365934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prosciutto/pseuds/prosciutto
Summary: Which brings her to this exact moment, really: Sitting in the same toilet cubicle that she and Bellamy have fucked in countless times before; pregnancy test in hand and pants around her ankles.“Shit,” she mutters, staring down at the pink plus symbol before her. “Shit, shit, shit.”Or: Clarke has never considered that raising ababytogether would come into the equation when she started sleeping with Bellamy Blake, but here they are.





	Spent a Dollar on This Ring

**Author's Note:**

> I... know nothing about being a police detective (title of a b99 episode) or human resources or whatever office detail it is I inserted into this fic, so let's just all take it with a pinch of salt, yeah?

Clarke has been partners with Bellamy Blake for three years now, and they’ve been sleeping together for about two of them. 

It starts— as most things do, with them— after one of their countless screaming matches. 

He’s new to the force, reckless and cockyin a way that makes her resent him almost immediately while she’s the stick in the mud (according to him, at least) who refuses to bend the rules to get a few more arrests. One minute they’re yelling about the necessity of filing the paperwork for the Highlander case, and the next minute they’re _kissing—_ furious and sloppy and wanting; Bellamy’s hand sliding down to the small of her back to guide her into the janitor’s closet. 

(It’ll take a few more months of fighting and fucking for them to _actually_ become friends, but the rest is history, to say the least.)

Which brings her to this exact moment, really: Sitting in the _same_ toilet cubicle that she and Bellamy have fucked in countless times before; pregnancy test in hand and pants around her ankles.

“Shit,” she mutters, staring down at the pink plus symbol before her. “Shit, shit, _shit_.” 

+

Ironically enough, there’s no one else that she _wants_ to talk about this to other than Bellamy.

“Hey,” he beams, sliding into the booth across hers. The diner remains to be one of their favorite after-work haunts, and she knows for a fact that he can’t resist the waffles here. Sure enough, he reaches over immediately to snag at her plate, pinching at the edge of the crust. “Look, I don’t know about you, but I think three arrests in a week constitutes us getting _two_ waffles instead.” 

She swats his hand away none too gently, biting back a smile. “ _Two_ waffles?” she says teasingly, “Hold up, big spender: who are you and what have you done with Bellamy Blake?” 

“He’s in lock-up, along with the rest of the criminals we put away this week,” he smirks, popping a chunk into his mouth and chewing triumphantly. “No, seriously though. How about ice cream?” 

It feels impossible to say _no_ to that face, especially considering the bomb she’s about to drop. “Sure,” she says tightly, forcing a smile. “You pick.” 

He eyes her suspiciously at that, brows rising up to his hairline. “You’re letting _me_ pick?” 

“Uh huh.” 

There’s a beat as he considers this, the muscle in his jaw jumping as he studies her unabashedly. “Okay,” he says, squinting over at her. “Who died?”

She can’t help it; she snorts. “Why is that always your first assumption when it comes to me?” 

“Because I know you,” he counters, shaking his head. “And the last time you were this tense, it was when Miller was put on probation.” 

“Undeservedly so.” 

“ _Clarke_.” 

She stills when she feels the warmth of his palm over hers, fingers tangling with hers so she has no choice but to release the mangled sugar packet from her grip. It’s one of the things that he understands about her— the need to keep her hands busy when she’s anxious. The thought of it makes her stomach twist with a combination of fondness and nerves.

“Talk to me,” he murmurs, concern furrowing at his brow. “Whatever it is,” he continues, his voice so _earnest_ that she has to close her eyes against the feeling, “you know I’m with you, right?” 

His words feel like a punch to the gut, somehow. “Right,” she manages weakly, a watery laugh escaping. “You know, you might want to hold that thought until afterI tell you what’s up.” 

That pulls a frown out of him, his fingers tightening around hers. “We’re _partners_ , Clarke,” he says, insistent. “And that means something to me. Always has, always will.”

(The worst part of it, she’s sure, is that she knowshow much he means it. That’s what makes his possible rejection of the entire situation at hand so fucking terrifying. Somewhere along the way, he’s become her _partner_ , in every sense of the word— her equal, her best friend, her constant. The thought of losing all of it in the next five minutes makes her blood go cold.) 

“You remember Raven’s housewarming?” she starts, biting at her lip. “And how we all got a little too drunk on tequila?” 

It takes him a few minutes, but he nods eventually. “Yeah,” he says slowly, “I had a hangover for days.” 

“Right,” she breathes, rubbing at her face. “And everyone was falling all over the place, and you were so _annoyed_ by Murphy and I— I dragged you off, remember?” 

_To have my way with you,_ she doesn’t say. (She doesn’t have to, if the way his mouth twitches slightly at the corners is any indication.)

“I remember,” he says wryly, sliding his thumb in a soothing motion over her knuckles. “It’s going to be hard to keep a straight face the next time we go over, if I’m being honest.” 

She chokes out a laugh, taking a deep, shaky breath to steady herself. “Bell.” 

“Hmm?” 

“I was sick then, right? I had the flu. You insisted on bringing me to the clinic a few days back.” 

The confusion in his eyes is evident, but he doesn’t push her to go faster, which she can’t help but appreciate. “I don’t follow,” he admits, his frown deepening. “But yeah, I remember that, I guess.” 

“So I was on antibiotics when we,” she closes her eyes, scrambling to find the words, “you _know_. And it didn’t occur to me that it could reduce the effectiveness of my birth control, not until I started feeling poorly this week, and—” she forces herself to a stop, breathing hard. 

His confusion seems to have given way to realization, at this point, and she closes her eyes before she can help herself, the motion reflexive. “I’m pregnant,” she finishes lamely, pulling away and pressing her hands into her lap.

The silence that descends over them is fucking deafening. 

Carefully, she eases her eyes open, her gaze landing on him. 

He’s staring at her like he’s never seen her before, his hands _shaking_ before he seems to compose himself, lacing them together. “Are you,” he stops, swallowing hard. “Are you sure?” 

“Yeah,” she says wearily, all the adrenaline from before flooding out in a rush. “I’m sure. And I thought about it, and I know it’s not smart, it’s _not_ , but— I want to keep it, okay? And I understand if you want nothing to do with this baby, and that—”

“ _Clarke_ ,” he interrupts, reaching over to grasp clumsily at her hand. He’s still trembling, she realizes, and it’s that coupled with the emotion in his voice that calms her, strangely. “Stop. Whatever you decide on, or have decided on— you’re not going to have to do it alone, okay?”

It’s the conviction in his voice that does it for her, and she squeezes back at his hand with equal fervor, her eyes _stinging_ painfully. “Only if you’re sure.” 

He doesn’t say anything to that right away, his face unreadable as he regards her. Then, softly, “I’d like to be a part of this,” he tells her, holding her gaze. “I _want_ to.”

She blinks, her eyes filling with tears once more. “Okay,” she croaks out, dropping her gaze down onto the table top. The maple syrup on her waffle is a congealed mess, and there’s pile of sugar right by her fork. She slides her pinkie through it, sending it scattering over to Bellamy’s end. 

They fall quiet, after that, until he finally breaks the silence, clearing his throat. “I think we could both use some ice cream right about now.” He says, the edges of his lips curling up into a half-smile. 

(It’s a good look on him, if she’s being entirely honest. And her favorite.) 

“Yeah,” Clarke says, returning it— a half-smile for a half-joke— before she’s lifting her hand, flagging the waiter down, “we can definitely use more than one.” 

+

The thing is, it’s not like it’s publicknowledge that she and Bellamy are anything more than _friends_ — let alone the fact that she’s having a _baby_ with him. 

She’s not sure what’s really stopping her, at this point. Her dad is dead, and her mom is as disinterested and uninvolved in her life as it gets (a by-product of her joining the force instead of med school back when she was eighteen) so it’s not like she has to _worry_ about informing her on any of her life decisions. 

And work-wise, it’s not like there’s strict protocol when it comes to dating within the precinct. Raven is dating Luna over at forensics, for one, and it’s no secret that Monty and Harper used to date. 

The most Clarke has to do, probably, is submit a form to HR to inform them about the whole… _situation_ at hand. If she wants to, she’ll be able to keep this quiet until she starts showing, and by then, maybe she’ll get used to the idea of people thinking of them as an item. Or whatever it is that entails Bellamy being her platonic life partner _and_ the father to her child, that is.

It’s a good plan, at any rate— so of _course_ it goes to shit the second she gets to work. 

“You and Bellamy,” Raven demands, flopping down onto the chair next to hers with all the aplomb of someone who has been through a tryingday. It’s only eight in the morning, but Clarke’s not going to bring that up. “Spill.” 

She blinks, coffee cup halfway to her lips. “What?” 

“You heard me,” Raven says, crossing her arms over her chest. Then, relenting, “Look, you know I’m not the type to pry, right? But also, it’s a pretty well-known fact that Roma over at HR is kind of a blabbermouth.” 

It’s not a well-known enough fact for her to have submitted her maternity leave application to Monroeinstead, but she plays it cool anyway. “I don’t see how this has anything to do with me or Bellamy, Rae.” 

The noise that she makes in response is distinctly disparaging. “Really? So I didn’t overhear Roma talking about how you and Blake are applying for leave ninemonths from now?” 

_Typical._ It’s such a _Bellamy_ move that Clarke can’t even bring herself to be annoyed. “Yeah, we did,” she concedes, reaching up to rub at her temples where she can feel a headache rapidly forming, “and I know you’re mad at me for not saying anything in the first place, but it was just— I just didn’t know howto tell you, okay?” 

That earns her a dismissive wave on Raven’s part. “Eh, it’s not a big deal. I mean, not to toot my own horn here, but I saw this coming from _miles_ away.” 

It dawns on her, then, that they’re _not_ entirely on the same page. “Rae—” 

“You guys are planning some sort of big trip, I take it? I bet it’s Blake’s idea.” 

“Not exactly,” she breathes, her voice shaky to her own ears. It catches Raven’s attention, at least, her expression turning from smug to worried in a split second. “I’m, uhm. I’m pregnant.” 

Her sharp inhalation of breath feels _loud_ even in the din of the station. “Shit,” she mutters, her eyes roving over her carefully, as if assessing for any signs she could have missed in the first place. “Just… wow. You holding up okay?” 

She shrugs. “As well as I can be, I guess.” It feels physically impossible to meet Raven’s soft, worried gaze any longer, so she looks down at her lap instead. “I know it’s going to be difficult, but. I want to keep it, you know? We both do.” 

“Okay,” she nods, reaching over to squeeze at her arm. Her touch is familiar, _comforting;_ and Clarke finds herself leaning into it despite herself. “So, just checking, but— it’s Bellamy’s, right?” 

It’s _stupid_ , but she laughs anyway. “No,” she snorts, flicking at her wrist teasingly, “he’s just taking some time off to help raise the kid who he has no relation to entirely whatsoever.” 

“And that _doesn’t_ sound like something he’ll do for you?” Raven remarks, dry. 

The insinuation behind it makes her flush, instinctive. “I’d do the same for him if it came down to it,” she says, biting at her lip. “It’s just who we are to each other, okay?” 

(It’s… a lot more than that, if she’s being entirely honest, but she’s not exactly in the mood to unravel the mess that is her feelings for Bellamy Blake right now.) 

She doesn’t sound all that convincing, if the slow, pitying way Raven is shaking her head is any indication. “God,” she huffs, making a disgusted noise. “You two obtuse idiots are _exhausting._ ” 

(Clarke can’t say she blames her, really.)

+

They make an appointment for Thursday afternoon, during one of Kane’s infamously long lunches with the deputy commissioner. 

It’s nothing she didn’t expect, but it’s still awkward to have to change into the thin, gauzy hospital gown in front of Bellamy anyway; to have to answer questions about her period and deflect the constant references to her _husband_. To his credit, he doesn’t so much as blink every time it comes up, just threads his fingers through hers and squeezes. 

Still, none of it matters when she sees it.

“There it is,” the technician beams, gesturing to the blur of white before them. “It’s still early days, of course, but everything looks normal so far.” 

A part of her is aware that he’s saying something else, that she should be _listening—_ but she’s transfixed by the sight of the small, impossible blob on the screen. 

They _made_ that. It’s _theirs._

Tears spring to her eyes, involuntary. “Oh my god.” She gurgles out a laugh, turning to face him. “Do you— you see that? Bell, that’s— it’s _ours._ ” 

His eyes are wet too, and she startles when he kisses at her knuckles, the intensity of it stealing her breath. “Yeah,” he breathes, tightening his grip on her. “That’s ours.” 

+

A few weeks in and unsurprisingly, Bellamy adapts to the situation a lot quicker than she does. 

He has a list of pediatricians prepped and ready for her the next time she comes over, along with a spreadsheetof the possible expenses that they could occur within the first few months. The broken latch by her bedroom window is miraculously fixed, and there’s _actual_ food in her fridge instead of the usual amount of takeout boxes cluttering it. 

“I’ve marked down the dates for your doctor’s appointments andfor our infant care classes,” he says in lieu of a greeting when she slides into the car, smoothie in hand and fifteen minutes late. “Oh, and have you looked at your insurance plan yet?”

“Not yet,” she admits, sticking her tongue out at him when that earns her a chastising look on his part, “but that’s because I was busy picking out my prenatal vitamins.” 

He perks up at that, fingers drumming a restless beat against the wheel. “Yeah? Did you get the ones with the extra calcium, because I read—” 

“You’re lucky you’re cute,” she interjects, slumping back into her seat and grinning when that pulls a scowl out of him. She’s been getting tired a lot more easily, lately, but that’s been the worst of her symptoms so far. “Were you a boy scout when you were a kid? I feel like you would have been a boy scout.” 

“I’ll have you know that I was a _badass_ back in high school, okay?”

She makes an unimpressed noise at that, her gaze landing on his half-open duffel flung over the backseat. There’s a book peeking out of there, like always, only this time it’s _The New Dad’s Manual_ instead of _The Odyssey._ His schedule-book is marked with pink tabs, which she knows for a fact is the color he uses for her, and the coffee cup in the holder is marked _decaf._

She has to hide her smile behind a curtain of hair at that, her pulse thumping so loud it’s a miracle he can’t hear it. “If you say so, Bell.” 

“Ask anyone,” he continues, nodding. _Oblivious_. “Ask Miller, in fact. He can attest to that.” 

“Hmm.” 

“Seriously!” 

He keeps at it the entire time they unload the groceries from the trunk, only stopping for dinner which he insists on cooking. It’s not all that different from what they usually do, back before any of _this_ happened— well, except now it’s happening with an increased frequency, _and_ without the expectation of hooking up after. 

(It’s not something that she can bring herself to complain about considering how she likes being with him in any capacity.)

She helps plate the pasta once he’s done and somehow manages to convince him to eat them by the couch; plates balanced precariously on their knees while they flick through Netflix before eventually settling on _Planet Earth._

It’s interesting enough, but she finds herself fidgeting mid-way through anyway; trying to get comfortable. Her calves are sore, and so are her boobs, and it’s close to impossible to find a position which works for her especially considering the small swell of her belly. 

Huffing, she crosses her legs once more, shifting restlessly in her seat.

She’s pretty sure she’s being subtle about the entire thing, but there’s not much that escapes Bellamy’s attention nowadays. “What’s wrong?” he asks immediately, straightening. “Is it cramps? Nausea?” 

“No,” she snaps, biting at the inside of her cheek to keep a reign on the tears brimming at her eyelids. Stupid _hormones._ “I’m just— I can’t get comfortable, okay?” she sniffs, “My feet _hurt,_ and there’s a crick in my neck, _and_ —” 

Wordlessly, he pulls her closer; her face fitting into the crook of his neck and legs half-dangling over his. Like this, he’s close enough to slide his hands down to her calves, massaging at her tense muscles. 

“Better?” he rasps, the rumble of his chest against her skin making her shiver. 

“Yeah,” she murmurs, nuzzling at the jut of his collarbone. He makes a small, pleased noise at it, and she can’t her smile in response. They’ve learned each other’s bodies over the years— knew how to provide solace and comfort with just the brush of a shoulder, the touch of a cheek. She’s never been much of a tactile person, but she liked that it was a kind of language between them; a way of understanding one another that was exclusively theirs.

She’s not sure how long they stay like this, curled up around each other— but she’s drowsy with sleep when she first feels him shift, his breath warm against her her temple when he presses a kiss against her forehead. 

And maybe that’s what makes her brave, or maybe it’s her current state of semi-consciousness, but she finds herself talking, anyway. “Hey,” she says, sliding her hand down to grasp at his shirt clumsily, his pulse steady under her palm, “hey, Bell.” 

She can feel the slight jump of his muscles against her fingertips; the crack of his voice at the realization that she’s awake, “Yeah?” 

“I’m glad,” she murmurs, the darkness weighing at her eyelids and threatening to pull her under. “I’m glad it’s you. I can’t imagine doing this with anyone else.”

The last thing she remembers is his hands sweeping across her stomach, warm and familiar. “Me either.” 

+

It’s almost routine, after that, for her to go over to his apartment instead of heading home. 

She doesn’t mean to make a habitout of it, but it’s just so much more _convenient_. His apartment is a lot closer to the precinct, for one, so she doesn’t have to brave through the rush hour to get home. There’s a tub at his place which means she gets to take _baths,_ and mealtimes are just a lot easier, too. (She gets intense cravings a lot of the time, and Bellamy’s fridge is more well-stocked than the mini-mart by her place.)

But mostly, it’s just comforting, really, to be near him. Her days are a lot less overwhelming when he’s around; are incrementally _better_ when he’s there to hold her hand, or to talk things through. She’s always felt this way with him, but it feels especially magnified now, with their baby on the way.

It’s the same for him, she’s sure. She sees it in the softening of his gaze whenever she stays over, waking up in the cradle of his arms. In the curve of his smile when she relents and gets seconds of whatever he made for dinner, and in the reverent brush of his fingers against the swell of her belly— something that he’s been doing more often, now that she’s getting bigger.

“It’s like I’m not even here,” she grumbles, the next time he greets her with a hand to her stomach, rubbing at it absently. “Would you like me to leave you two alone? Let you guys get acquainted?” 

“Aw, babe,” he teases, poking at her cheek. “You’re cute when you’re jealous.” 

“Shut up,” she huffs, biting back a smile. (It’s not like she minds, if she’s being entirely honest. Not really.) “Now, budge over. I need to brush my teeth.” 

He doesn’t argue with that, shifting slightly so she has room by the sink. There’s toothpaste crusted to the side of his mouth, hair sticking up haphazardly on one side, and it’s annoying how _good_ he looks even then. 

He catches her staring before she can look away, arching a pointed brow over at her, “What?” 

“Nothing,” she manages, shrugging. “It’s just— your hair's a mess.” 

“So is yours,” he says, matter of fact, before dipping his razor back under the water. 

She makes an indignant noise at that, sputtering out a mouthful of toothpaste. “Well excuse _me,_ you’re not the one who has to try and tame her hair with a humongous _hump_ impeding all her movements.” 

“Did you just call our baby a _hump_?” 

She crosses her arms over her chest, growling in frustration when the motion ends up jostling at her belly. “You heard me.”

The look on his face is distinctly incredulous. “So, you’re saying it’s impossible for you to carry out any of your daily functions because our baby is, essentially, a humongous roadblock?” 

“Humps aren’t roadblocks, Bell.” 

There’s a beat as he considers this, nodding slightly when he seems to make up his mind. “Okay, then. C’mon.” 

She startles when he sets his razor down, drawing up behind her. “Wait— what are you doing?” 

“Helping, since our little turnip isn’t,” he says, working at the knots in her hair with careful precision. “What do you want, ponytail or braid? I can do one of those french ones, if you’d like.” 

She can’t help it, she laughs. “You’re bluffing, right?”

“I have a baby sister, Clarke. What do _you_ think?” 

In the end, she goes for a french braid, just to be fancy. He even ties it off with a little bow, smoothing the loose strands behind her ears carefully. 

“Wow,” she grins, arching her back to get a good look at it. “You’ve outdone yourself, Bellamy Blake.” 

“Sure, sure.” He nods, a smile playing on his lips before he reaches over, grabbing at her toothbrush. “Now are you going to brush your teeth, or should I do that for you, too?” 

(They’re a whole half an hour late for work, that day.) 

+

The significance of her twentieth week appointment is pretty much lost on her until Dr. Jackson prompts, “So, would you guys like to know the sex of the baby?”

She blinks, turning over to look at Bellamy. Of everything they’ve prepared for, gender just hadn’t been one of the things that they had worried about, or even _considered_. “Oh, uhm. Yes?” she tries, cocking her head in question. His answering nod steadies her voice, as does the squeeze of his palm, “Actually, yes. Definitely.” 

“Of course,” he says, smiling as he shifts at the wand. “Now, sometimes it can be difficult to tell, depending on the way the baby is positioned, but in your case… well, it looks like a little girl.”

 _A girl._ A choked, watery noise escapes at that, her eyes immediately filling as Bellamy grasps tighter at her hand, laughing. 

“It’s a girl,” he breathes, gaze fixed on the screen. “ _Clarke_. It’s a girl.” 

She ducks her head, then, pressing a kiss against his jaw. “I know,” she murmurs, grinning at the shock on his face, quickly melting away into something softer, almost akin to awe. “Looks like those braiding skills are going to come in handy, huh?” 

“You bet,” he replies, his voice thick, and she thinks she hears his breath hitch when she leans over, pressing her wide, _stupid_ smile into the skin of his neck.

+

She’s _huge_ by the time her third trimester rolls around; a fact that she’s constantly reminded of when trying to navigate the cramped, too-small hallways of the precinct. 

Thankfully, it’s her last day before she gets to go on break so it’s not like she has to put up with it any longer. Raven and Monty throw her a surprise baby shower in the kitchen pantry right before she leaves, though, and it becomes enough of a saga for her to stay on for an extra couple of hours. It’s hard to mind, especially considering Lincoln baked cupcakes, but she’s definitely _exhausted_ by the time she gets back to Bellamy’s apartment.

“Hey,” she calls out, toeing off her shoes and kicking them aside. It’s eerily quiet, but if she strains her ears, she can hear the faint sound of his audiobook playing in the background. “Look, I don’t know about you, but I’m starving, so tell me you have some food lying around.” 

There’s a muffled _thump,_ followed by the sound of vigorous swearing. Then, sounding through the walls, “There’s lasagna in the microwave!” 

She frowns, padding deeper into the apartment. The bedroom door is wide open, and there’s no one in the bathroom either, so— “Wait, where are you?” 

“In here.” 

Spinning on her heel, she spots him almost immediately, hovering by the door to his office. “Hey.” She smiles, drawing closer so she can put her arms around him, “I’m back.” 

“Evidently,” he chuckles, catching at her wrist and rubbing soothing circles against the bone. “How was it?” 

“Fun, until our little watermelon decided to try out some gymnastics over here.” 

He makes a face at that, laughing. “I bet Octavia’s really regretting sending us that week by week comparison of babies to fruits and veggies, huh?” 

“We wouldn’t have to resort to that if it was easy to come up with a name for her,” Clarke points out, nuzzling her face into the jut of his shoulder. “So, what have you been up to?” 

He curls his fingers around her wrist, then, the movement exceedingly gentle. “Come see.” 

“What?” 

“Just _look,_ Princess.” 

She peers in, a retort already springing to her lips—

Only for her to stop short at the sight of the nursery before her. 

There’s a small, painted crib, and toys that they bought for her last weekend and even miniature _bookshelves_. Blinking, she reaches out, brushing her hand against the walls painted a soft, golden yellow. 

“What do you think?” he asks, squeezing at her shoulder. “I only painted over the walls, but I was thinking that you could pick out the rest of the stuff to match. Or you could paint it over again, actually. I don’t care. I just didn’t want our baby’s room to be in shades of _grey_.” 

She shakes her head, clearing her throat. “No, it’s— it’s fine. I love it.” 

“Yeah?” he beams, sliding his hand down to lace their fingers together. “No violent objections?” 

“None,” she manages, biting at her lip. “I’m just— god, I’m thinking about how I haven’t done up her nursery back at my apartment. I should really get on it.” 

“It’s no big deal,” Bellamy shrugs, flippant. “She can just stay here until you’re finished.” 

He doesn’t mean anything by it— she _knows_ he doesn’t— but she can’t help the anger that surges up within her anyway, flaring bright and hot. “I’m not going to want to be _away_ from my baby,” she snaps, wrenching her hand away from his. “ _Jesus_ , Bellamy.” 

It’s impossible to look at him; to look at the pure _hurt_ on his face so she turns away, crossing her arms over her chest. 

“You know that’s not what I meant,” he says lowly, after a beat. “Just,” he swears, running his palm over his face. “C’mon, Clarke. I— want you here, always _._ This might be a lot to ask from you but I just thought— I want,” he stops, inhaling sharply. “Move in with me.” 

She blinks, swallowing down the lump in her throat. “What?” 

“Move in with me,” he repeats, hoarse. “I’m not just asking because we’re having a baby together, or because it’s the smart thing to do, but because— because you’re my best friend. You’re my partner. And there’s no one else who I’d rather do this with, who I’d even _want_ to do this with—”

She surges forward before he can finish the sentence, sealing her lips over his. There’s a long, breathless second where he doesn’t react, somehow, and she’s about to pull away when suddenly he’s kissing her _back_ — hot and insistent and thorough, his arms locking around her to keep her close. 

The intensity of it breaks when she slides her hands up against the back of his shirt, though, pulling at it fruitlessly while he laughs, kissing her cheek. “Hey,” he murmurs, stroking her cheek. “ _Hey._ Stop trying to get me naked when I’m trying to tell you that I love you.” 

She staggers forward, then, trusting him to bear her weight as she presses their foreheads together. “Yeah,” she says, hand rising up to cradle at his cheek, grinning. _He loves her, too._ “I figured.” 

+

Their baby is born just two weeks after, in what is possibly the _longest_ twelve hours of Clarke’s life. 

Still, it’s all worth it, in the end. She’s pretty sure bursts into tears the second the midwife hands their daughter over, but so does Bellamy, and it’s a mess of tears and snot and _laughter_ as they marvel over her little toes; the fine dusting of dark hair on the top of her head. There’s an endless stream of visitors that come over, after that, but it’s all a blur, somehow. All she remembers is the small, sleepy bundle in her arms, and the gentle press of Bellamy’s fingers against her cheek. 

“Hey,” she whispers, closing her eyes when she feels him drop a kiss against her hair, his arm going over her shoulders. “Get up here.” 

“And get us kicked right out of the hospital?” he says, wry. “Not sure that’s a good move, Princess.” 

She cracks an eye open to look at him. “Since when do you care about rules?” 

That gets him to relent, at least, shaking his head ruefully. “Fine,” he murmurs, easing into the small stretch of space beside her before sliding his arms back around her once more, “but if we get kicked out, I’m gonna say I told you so.” 

“Right after I gave birth to your child? The audacity.” 

He stifles a laugh against her shoulder, then, his free hand finding hers so they can weave their fingers together. “You ready, partner?” 

She glances down at their linked hands; at their daughter, safely nestled between them. “More than I’ll ever be,” she tells him, before letting her eyes flutter shut once more. 


End file.
